


we're not friends, nor have we ever been

by playthetyrants



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Eve, Christmas fic, John understands, M/M, Mary doesn't exist sorry folks, Sherlock has a lot of feelings and doesn't know how to address them, This is a Christmas Fic, it occurs during christmas time, it starts off kind of dark but get to the ending, this is post Reinbachen but before anything else I suppose, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8997304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playthetyrants/pseuds/playthetyrants
Summary: “Do you love me?”The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he was already kicking himself internally before he finished. Of course Sherlock loved him; well, he had to in some way at least, if they were dating. Sherlock hadn’t ever looked John straight in the eye and told him that before, which would be unnerving to most but to John it was okay. That was Sherlock, that was who we was and how he acted. He didn’t need to be told he was loved daily. Still...it’d be nice every now and again. John broke from his reverie to glance at Sherlock again, who had suddenly frozen up in his spot, the looseness of his body from the alcohol disappearing. His mouth was turned down in a slight frown, his light blue eyes no longer staring into his, but rather staring at a fixed spot on the table. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped 10 degrees. sherlock's never been good with his emotions, and john knows that; but maybe it's time to start trying.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone! so...this is my first attempt at anything sherlock/johnlock related. one of my best friends asked me if i could write her a johnlock christmas fic, so here it is? there's not much christmas to it, but the idea is still there. oops.
> 
> i really, really enjoy sherlock's character on the show, and i wanted to do him justice when i wrote this. it was definitely a challenge; i had to sit down and think his scenes through, think about what he would do or say and this was the result. in some ways, i can relate very strongly to him. 
> 
> this is post reinbachen fall, so obviously if you haven't seen that...don't read. lol. 
> 
> obviously, i do not own any of the Sherlock characters, nor do i have anything to do with BBC or the show in general. this was just me wanting to try something different, and i hope you like it.

PTSD is an incurable disease, and John knows that. 

He knows that there are certain things he’ll never be able to look at again, certain things that will set off triggers like landmines in his brain and dreams that send him into fits of panic in the middle of the night, gasping for air as if he’s just run a mile nonstop. 

Those are the worst, he thinks; his heart pounds heavily against his ribcage and threatens to crack it in half, and his head feels like it’s going to explode all over the pillow below him. Vaguely, through the massive amount of nostalgia and confusion he feels every time he has a nightmare, he thinks about how Sherlock would probably appreciate a grotesque, bloody look all over the walls in his bedroom. 

Sherlock. 

Oh, Sherlock.

John barely has time to think about him tonight, for this nightmare wasn’t about his time in the war like usual. 

His head is spinning before he can even sit up in bed, nausea threatening to consume him as he breathes in heavily through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. 

‘It’s best to just breathe when these happen, John. Just focus on that and nothing else.’

It sounds simple enough when a therapist says it; after all, it’s their job. 

But therapy never prepared him for those nightmares that involved the one person that usually calms him down. 

John doesn’t even notice the lights come on; his eyes are probably squeezed shut too tightly. His blood is pumping loudly in his ears, and he’s suddenly aware of his mouth, clenched shut as if it were stitched that way, his teeth grinding heavily against one another.

So when he feels the soft touch of a hand against his arm, it’s not surprising that he reacts violently to it. He always does, no matter who it is, it’s just instinct to him and he’s trying to protect himself. 

But this time, it’s different. His stomach fills with dread because he knows who’s on his other side, who’s reaching out to touch him, and it’s the same person he just lost in a dream. 

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is soft, almost inaudible, but that could be due to John’s heart still pounding in his ears. It’s like he’s not reacting to how John slapped his hand out of the way at all, and he feels his throat start to constrict at that. 

“John.” he repeats, and yet John keep his mouth shut, swallowing thickly but his shoulders begin to slump down all the same. 

He can feel Sherlock sit up beside him, the bed moving slightly and creaking beneath the weight and he can feel his eyes on him, as if trying to bore holes into the side of his face.

He probably could if he tried hard enough. 

A beat passes between them, then he speaks up again, a bit louder this time. 

“Was it me tonight?” 

He understands. He always understands.

John feels his head bob up and down slightly, though he’s not fully aware he’s even doing it. He hears an audible sigh from beside him, and then the movement of the bed beneath him as Sherlock goes to move off. 

“No, stop.” John’s voice is loud and abrupt and really, he didn’t mean for it to come out that way but Sherlock freezes anyway, a strange silence filling the room. 

His eyes are still closed, but he slowly lifts up his hand and reaches across the bed until he feels skin, sliding his fingers down Sherlock’s arm before closing them around his wrist. His index finger presses against the inside of his palm, and he can faintly feel his pulse, rhythmic and strong. It takes him a few moments, but he successfully matches his own heartbeat with his, and then finally opens his eyes. 

Sherlock’s merely staring at him, his blue eyes full of mostly concern but also a hint of sleepiness. His dark curls are a mess on top of his head, sticking out in odd directions from being pressed up against his pillow, and he looks very pale tonight, something John does well to remember and ask about in the morning. 

He swallows a bit, his eyes flickering down to where John still has a death grip on his wrist before looking back up and meeting his eyes once more before putting on a strangely placid look, emotion draining from his face like color. 

“What did I do this time? Shoot you? Kill Lestrade?” he asked numbly as John eyed him carefully for a moment. 

“You jumped off a building.” John swore he could hear the gears in Sherlock’s head turning, a swift look of realization appearing and disappearing in his eyes so fast he could’ve imagined it. But John knew he didn’t.

“Reinbachen…” Sherlock breathed slowly, and John watched his shoulders slump down a bit as he exhaled, pulling his hand from John’s grip. John stayed silent as he looked down, staring at the pattern on their bedspread as his large hands began to clench and unclench in his lap.

All of his skin was exceptionally pale tonight, but John figured it was the cold December weather in London that was doing it to him. Still, Sherlock’s room was always very warm, and he’d opted out of wearing a shirt entirely to go to bed, something John was slightly confused with but never complained about. There was a smattering of purplish bruises littering the side of his ribcage, from a case last week that ended up with the two of them fighting off the culprit in the dark (Sherlock hadn’t been prepared; John was.) 

John watched his neck move slightly as he swallowed once more, his hands finally coming to rest back down against his lap. 

“I’m sorry, John.” 

John shook his head quickly, immediately reaching over and sliding his fingers in between his. “Sherlock, stop. I’ve told you this before, you don’t need to apolog-”

Sherlock huffed haughtily, yanking his hand from John and turning his head away towards the wall like a child. He always did that, always deflected John’s words and stubbornly cut him off.

“Well obviously it’s my fault somehow. You haven’t had a dream about me dying in months and I have to have done something to trigger it in your mind. Whether it was something I said or did or didn’t say or didn’t do, it messed with something in your subconscious and now you’re having these dreams again...” John watched him ramble, his voice growing deeper and louder and his eyes were suddenly squeezed shut, his hands reaching up to grip his dark curls tightly and yeah, Sherlock was a drama queen at times but this was entirely different. 

“Sherlock Holmes, I swear to God…” John immediately pushed himself up to sit on his knees, reaching up and yanking his arms from his head quickly. “Shut up, okay? Just shut up for a minute.” 

Sherlock kept his eyes shut for a moment because, yes, he was a child. John watched his rapid breathing slow back down for a few moments before he finally opened his eyes, staring back at him with a void look of guilt. John kept a grip on his hands, and this time Sherlock didn’t try and fight it. 

“This is not your fault.” Sherlock huffed again at that, but remained silent nevertheless. John narrowed his eyes slightly before continuing. 

“These dreams...they just happen sometimes. Yeah, a lot of them are triggered, but some aren’t. I don’t understand how it works, but it doesn’t matter. Did you notice I haven’t had a single death dream about you since we started dating?” For a split second, John thought he saw Sherlock’s face soften at his words, but then it was back to its rigid, stoic state as he pursed his lips slightly. 

“I didn’t know that.” he stated simply, and John smiled a bit at that. 

“Mark your calendars. I knew something before Sherlock Holmes did.” Relief washed over him as Sherlock cracked a small grin, dimples forming in his cheeks as he tilted his head down, looking at their hands. 

“Only you, John Watson…” he mused quietly, sliding his thumb lazily across his knuckles for a moment before yawning. “No offense, but if you’re little episode is over I’d like to go back to bed.” 

John scoffed loudly, playfully pushing his hands away before flopping back down on the bed, rolling on his side so that his back was facing him. “Dammit Sherlock, right when you were getting soft.” 

Sherlock hummed loudly in response, John feeling the mattress move beneath him as he turned off the lights and laid back down. 

“Never me, John,” he responded almost lazily as a soft silence filled the room for a few moments. 

Sherlock was definitely not a cuddler. He wasn’t a toucher at all, really. Despite being in a relationship he strongly insisted on keeping his own personal boundaries most of the time, and it made sense to John, really. Obviously, Sherlock had never been one for showing any affection in the first place, let alone doing something like holding hands in public. (John still considers that their first major milestone; Lestrade nearly fainted when he turned around to congratulate them on a crime scene and saw them holding hands beside the cop car instead.) 

John listened to Sherlock’s breathing gradually slow down before turning back around slowly to his other side, glancing at him briefly. 

He was laying on his back, like he often did, his head resting sideways on the pillow so that it was facing away from John, his farthest hand resting on his torso and the other at his side, just a few inches away from John. He looked strangely calm and tranquil, words that John would have never used to describe Sherlock Holmes unless he was asleep or dead.  
John leaned over carefully, the blankets rustling beneath him as he gently pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s bare arm, soft and brief, before turning back over on his side and pulling the covers up. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock…” he breathed out quietly, his eyes falling shut. A few beats passed, and John was almost positive he’d fallen asleep on him before he spoke up softly. 

“Goodnight, John.” 

The next day was the 23rd, the day before Christmas Eve. For the past week, Sherlock and John had been tracking down a particularly strange guy who’d been brutally injuring and even killing one person with candy canes, “a true Christmas hero” as Sherlock had called him, much to Lestrade’s dismay and John’s stifled laughter. The case really shouldn’t have taken Sherlock so long to figure out, because the culprit wasn’t the brightest and had left sticky, peppermint fingerprints at majority of the crime scenes. In all honestly, John figured Sherlock was secretly enjoying the way this was starting to ruin the Christmas time vibes that overtook London during this time of the year, but quickly caught him after the last victim died. Sherlock and Mycroft didn’t have that much in common, but their hatred for the holiday season was something they’d always agree on. 

“You’re such a grinch, Sherlock,” John mused, tilting his head to the side slightly as he watched their guilty criminal being shoved into the back of a police car, looking downright terrified as the door was slammed in his face. Sherlock hummed a bit in response, watching the car leave before turning to face John. 

“Not really. I don’t deliberately ruin the season for anyone, I just can’t stand it.” John raised an eyebrow at him, scanning his face for any sign of joking but of course he wasn’t. He smirked a bit, shaking his head before turning around and lifting up the crime scene tape, ducking beneath it and walking towards the edge of the street, away from the house where they’d caught the stupid teenager. 

“You remind me of him, the boy…” He turned, watching Sherlock follow him over, his curls hitting the top of the yellow tape briefly before he stood up straight, staring John down.

“He had the right idea,” he said monotonously, and John couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips, covering his mouth with his hand as Sherlock smirked at him, running his fingers through his hair. 

“This story will make for one hell of a blog post,” he commented, and John managed to compose himself and nod in response, straightening up and crossing his arms. 

“Yeah, I’ve already starting working on it in my head…” Sherlock made a face suddenly, mouth twisting into a grimace, looking slightly disgusted. 

“Please don’t name it something completely stupid like ‘The Candy Cane Killer’,” he mused, and John smiled, meeting his eyes. 

“Too cliche. I was thinking, ‘Red, White and Murder’.” Sherlock merely stared at him for a moment, blinking a bit as if contemplating it. 

“John, that sounds like a biography for the entirety of America in 2016.” And really, John hadn’t heard anything that funny in months. 

Lestrade made his way over a few minutes later and John was still doubled over against one of the police cars, laughing into the metal and Sherlock was trying to stifle his laughter with his scarf, the two of them refusing to look at each other at all in fear of losing it all over again. John could see Lestrade awkwardly pass a glance between the two of them briefly, before clearing his throat. John managed to push himself up, blinking rapidly with a dumb grin still on his lips, meeting his eyes. 

“Sorry…” he managed out, and Sherlock snorted into his scarf before turning to face them, trying his best to look stoic but chewing on his lip nevertheless. 

Lestrade eyed them in confusion before shaking his head. “I just wanted to say good job, great work, the usual…” He waved his hand absentmindedly and Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning against one of the cars as John smiled at him. 

“Thank you, at least from me.” He shot Sherlock a look and he merely stared blankly at him in response as Lestrade shrugged. 

“He appreciates it deep down.” Sherlock made a face at him as Lestrade smirked, turning towards him. “What are you doing for Christmas? Going to your parent’s again?” 

Now was Sherlock’s turn to wave his hand around. “Mycroft insisted they needed a vacation for the holidays and sent them to some island for two weeks, so they’re nowhere near us. I have no reason to see my brother this year, a Christmas miracle if you ask me.” John shot him another look, raising an eyebrow at him as Sherlock merely smiled to himself, pulling out his phone and busying himself with it. 

Lestrade eyed him carefully for a moment, looking more weary than anything, as he expected nothing less from him, before he turned to John. “Well, what about your parents? I’m sure they’d love to meet his incredibly kind guy you’re dating.” John grinned, nodding in agreement. 

“I’m sure they would. But they can’t, they died a few years ago.” An odd sort of silence filled the space then, Lestrade looking at him in horror and Sherlock seeming to look up momentarily from his phone before looking back down. 

John blinked, watching as Lestrade began to stutter out apologies. “Oh God...I didn’t…” He cleared his throat awkwardly, avoiding his eyes. “I had no idea…” John shook his head quickly, laughing a bit. 

“Lestrade, it’s fine. You didn’t know, it happened a long time ago.” He shrugged, smiling warmly at him. “That’s all there is to it. Don’t worry about it, really.” 

It took a few minutes, but John finally managed to convince him he wasn’t offended, which he wasn’t. He never spoke about his family at all, how would anyone know they were dead?

When Lestrade finally left, he turned to face Sherlock and found him already walking towards the main road, pulling his coat tighter around his body. 

He frowned a bit, jogging after him to catch up. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” He remained silent for a moment, scanning the street before raising his hand in the air. 

“Calling a cab for us,” he answered simply, and John tried not to focus on the fact that he refused to look him in the eyes. 

That afternoon, John couldn’t keep the silent cab ride back to Baker Street from his mind. Sherlock had looked out the window the entire time, but it didn’t seem to be on purpose. Rather, John thought he looked very deep in thought, his brows scrunched together slightly as London whizzed past them outside. 

Now John sat at his chair, staring blankly at his laptop screen on his thighs, his head resting on his palm as he kept glancing up at Sherlock across from him, his long legs pulled up on the couch, his body wrapped in his dark blue robe. He was staring down at the cup of tea in his hands that Mrs. Hudson had brought them both earlier, running his fingertip along the edge of the handle. 

John sighed loudly, shutting his laptop rather forcefully before setting it down and sitting up in his chair, Sherlock failing to react at all. 

“Alright, what did I do? Did I say something? Do something? You’re obviously pissed at me.” John grit his teeth as Sherlock ignored him yet again, still staring at his tea in his bony hands. He tapped his fingers agitatedly against the coffee table, staring Sherlock down and trying with all his might to bore holes straight through his skull. 

“Sherlock Holmes, I’m not going to fight with you two days before bloody Christmas!” His voice rose suddenly and his fist had landed down hard against the table before he even knew it was happening, shaking the kettle and plates and spoons on it. He thought he heard Mrs. Hudson shriek downstairs, and yet still, Sherlock stared at his cup, his brow furrowed in thought as if he were deaf.

John nearly opened his mouth to yell again before Sherlock slowly began to set his tea down on the table, sitting back up and leaning against one of the pillows slightly, bringing his hands to his mouth as he usually did, giving John a long look. 

John blinked a bit stupidly at him, shifting around in his chair as he brought his hands back up into his lap. He kept his mouth shut, letting Sherlock’s blue eyes pierce into his for a few moments more, before he cleared his throat and dropped his hands from his mouth. 

“I want to go see your parents tomorrow.” 

For a moment, John swore time stood still. It was stuck like that; him and Sherlock simply staring at each other from across the room. John opened and closed his mouth a few times, pursing his lips as he tried to think of something to say. Sherlock looked bored; his face was nothing more than that of a stoic mannequin, waiting for his response. 

John finally cleared his throat, leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together for no good reason besides the fact that he was still trying to comprehend what he said. 

“You mean, like…” He cleared his throat again, blinking. “Like...visit their graves?” Sherlock looked at him almost stupidly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, which...yeah, he guesses it was. 

“Yes, of course…” he responded slowly, sliding his legs down and off the couch, his feet hitting the floor quietly. “I want to meet them.” 

John felt his chest suddenly begin to tighten up, the sheer capacity of what was actually happening hitting him like a truck. Sherlock Holmes, the actual proven sociopath, known across Europe for his lack of emotion and tact and utter rudeness in general, was asking John if he could go visit his dead parents’ gravesites tomorrow. 

He amazed him every single damn day. 

That night, it snowed for hours and Sherlock ended up falling asleep on the couch, wrapped in his blue robe with a book on his chest. John wandered into the living room to check on him after taking a particularly long shower and sighed a bit, walking back into his bedroom and fetching a blanket and covering him up. Sherlock reached out and swiped at him lazily in his sleep before turning around on and burying his face into one of the cushions, the book falling onto the floor. John jumped out of the way and smiled fondly, shaking his head before turning out the lights and walking out. 

It took him forever to fall asleep; all he could think about was taking his boyfriend, Sherlock sociopath Holmes, to meet his dead parents in the morning, on Christmas Eve. 

It sounded stranger the longer he dwelled on it. 

The snow finally let up in the morning, and when John woke up, squinting against the sunlight from the window, he reached an arm out and felt the spot beside him in bed was still cold and empty. He yawned and rolled over, rubbing at his eyes a bit before opening them, blinking at the open closet door beside him. 

He could see Sherlock’s back facing him, rummaging around for something before standing up suddenly, holding a particular grey scarf in his hands, humming happily before tying it around his neck, already fully dressed and in his coat as he turned towards the bed, blinking in surprise at John.

“I’m sorry...did I wake you?” he asked briskly, and John shook his head, sitting up. 

‘No, you’re fine…” He looked over at the alarm clock on the bedside table, raising an eyebrow. “It’s only 8 am. Why the rush to leave?”

Sherlock merely shrugged a bit, finishing with his scarf and dropping his hands. “I’ve got to run to the shop and pick up a few things beforehand. You know...since it’ll be closed tomorrow and we don’t want to be stuck without...things.” 

John smirked at him, tilting his head to the side and pushing off the blankets. 

“What kind of things are we going to need?” he asked pointedly, and Sherlock blinked at him, setting his jaw rigidly. 

“...milk, for one,” he began, and John nearly snorted but managed to keep his lips pressed together. “And...bread.” He blinked again, looking a bit lost as if he were actually thinking of things they needed. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone shopping. 

John merely smiled, shaking his head before getting up, brushing shoulders with him as he walked towards the bathroom. “Just don’t be too long, we’ve got a train to catch in an hour and a half.” He grabbed a folded towel off the kitchen table before catching glance of Sherlock’s slightly confused but nonetheless relieved face. “I’m going to get ready.”  
Sherlock nodded quickly before walking down the hallway, stopping in the living room for a brief moment before looking around. 

“Money’s on the shelf above the fireplace,” John called out lazily before shutting the door, smiling to himself when he heard the front door close and Sherlock’s heavy footsteps take off down the stairs. 

An hour and a half later found them both on a train en route to Brighton, where his parents had resided and been buried at several years ago. Sherlock had returned from the shop with actual groceries and nothing else, which John found strange but remained quiet about nonetheless. The ride itself was only an hour, and although John was used to Sherlock’s usual silence it still struck him as unnerving that he did nothing but stare out the window the entire time. John leaned glumly against his seat, watching the rolling hills around them eventually even out and lead to the flat lands of the beach. 

It was still cold but nothing like the near blizzard happening 50 miles north in London, and John was surprised at how relaxed the salt-smelling air made him as he stepped off the train. He glanced up at Sherlock, who had shoved his hands in his coat pockets and was now scanning the road in front of them, squinting a bit. 

“Do you know how to get to the cemetery from here?” he asked suddenly, and John nodded, turning and pointing towards the right. 

“RIght down there, maybe 10 minutes away?” he replied, and Sherlock nodded once. 

“Good. I’ll meet you there.” John blinked, frowning before turning back around to face him. 

“Meet me th-” He stopped short, mouth slightly agape at the now empty space in front of him. He scanned the crowds of people in front of him for Sherlock’s dark curls but couldn’t find him at all; it was like he’d disappeared into thin air. 

Grumbling a bit, John turned on his heel and set off down the street, knowing he shouldn't be surprised at all. He envied Sherlock sometimes; what he wouldn’t give to be able to escape situations and crowds like that when he could. He cut through one of the many parks in the town, making his way past laughing kids and tired looking parents, already eager for winter holidays to be over, the excitement and promise of Christmas tomorrow morning thick and heavy in the air.

The town was littered with decorations, and John could tell why his parents loved this place so much. Everything was homely, and had tradition and character; something his own childhood had lacked entirely. Sure, they’d had Christmases, but it was in a new town every year. Being a military brat had its downfalls. 

They’d stayed in Brighton for almost 2 years, when he was 11 or 12. He remembered bits and pieces; swimming in the summer, driving up to London with his sister and mother during the winter, nothing too special. He figures he’d subconsciously wiped all his good memories from this place away in his mind; after all, it was the place he’d had to bury both of his parents at. 

He made it to the cemetery in about 8 minutes, his hands still shoved into his pockets as he walked through the open gate, nearly tripping over his feet when he saw Sherlock standing there waiting for him, his hands behind his back and looking slightly bored. 

“Good God John, I swear I’ve celebrated 5 Christmases just waiting here for you,” he said in slight annoyance, and John merely gaped at him in response for a moment. 

“I..I took a shortcut, and you…” His voice faltered suddenly as Sherlock pulled his hands back in front of him, a large flower bouquet in one of them. John closed his mouth, falling silent as Sherlock reached down to fix one of the tulip petals, the cellophane rustling loudly against his coat. He glanced up at John’s sudden silence, frowning at him. 

“What? What is it?” He stood up straight, shooting him a concerned look and stepping forward as John merely shook his head slowly, placing his hands back in his pockets. 

“You bought flowers,” he stated simply, and Sherlock groaned a bit, rolling his eyes. 

“Yes, of course.” He blinked suddenly, looking slightly concerned. “Isn’t that what people do? Didn’t you bring flowers to my grave when I w-” He stopped short, catching sight of John’s dark look and pursed his lips slightly. “Sorry.”

John scanned his face carefully, stepping forward. “Yes, of course…” he replied, reaching forward and touching one of the tulips delicately with his fingertip before glancing up at him, meeting his eyes. “Tulips were my mum’s favorite.” 

John felt his stomach do a flip as Sherlock smiled proudly, admiring his choice in flowers once more before looking back at him. “Lead the way, then,” he mused, nodding towards the massive array of headstones, and John nodded slowly, stepping forward and walking. 

His parents were buried on the farthest left side, closest to the ocean. He and Harry had both decided that was best; the beach had been their favorite place, where their house was and where they’d always spent their summers. 

Sherlock trailed slowly behind him, his heavy footsteps and the occasional rustle of cellophane the only thing John heard on the way over. There was no one else here, really it was a morbid place for someone to be on Christmas Eve, but he figured more would be here tomorrow. 

He finally reached them, two simple grey headstones side by side. He smiled a bit, running his finger along each of them before turning to face Sherlock and gesturing towards them. “Sherlock, meet my mum and dad.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly at him, as if it were the most distasteful joke he’d ever heard in his entire life and John was amazed he even had the audacity to look at him like that, considering the fact that he’d said much worse to people before. He walked over carefully, scanning the headstones for a moment. 

“They died on the same day?” he asked almost uncertainly, as if he were afraid to, and John nodded in response. 

“Car accident, they died instantly.” He shrugged a bit, looking back towards him and meeting his eyes. “It happens.” 

Sherlock nodded slowly, clutching his flowers close to his chest as he fell silent, frowning slightly. John stared at him for a moment, still in awe that he was even here, before turning towards the graves once more. 

“Hi Mum, hi Dad…” he began slowly, taking a steady breath before relaxing. “I know it’s been awhile, I’m sorry…” Sherlock remained motionless a few feet away from him, staring down at the ground by his feet as John talked for a couple minutes. 

“I brought you someone this time, his name is Sherlock, and he’s…” He fell silent, running the toe of his shoe across the dirt for a moment before smiling to himself. “He’s really, really special to me. He wanted to come meet you himself, for Christmas…”His voice faltered and cracked a bit, but he merely cleared his throat and took a step back, gesturing to the headstones. “Have at it, then.”

Sherlock nodded quickly, stepping forward in John’s place before he turned his head slightly, glancing at him. 

“Can we...can I...have some...privacy?” he mumbled a bit, and John raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

“Yeah...yeah of course, sorry…” He took a few more steps backwards, nearly colliding with another large headstone before turning around and wandering towards the fence, his back towards his boyfriend. 

He crossed his arms over his chest, staring ahead blankly at the rows of houses in front of him. Sherlock Holmes was talking to his dead parents, the same Sherlock Holmes who had an aneurysm every time a client came and spoke about ghosts and spirits talking to them and kicked them out of their flat. How was it that he was comfortable having a conversation with...well, with dead people? With cold, marble gravestones? 

John bit on his bottom lip gently, letting his thoughts trail off. He tilted his head towards the sky, squinting his eyes at the cloud above when he suddenly heard Sherlock’s voice, soft and faint but still audible. John blinked, going still for a moment before taking a slight step back towards him, his speaking coming within complete earshot now. 

“...I’ve never spoken at a grave before, and it’s really a bit unnerving, I don’t like it.” John bit back a grin, listening to Sherlock’s slightly whiny voice before he cleared his throat.  
“However...I care about John. He never really spoke to me about the two of you before, which is okay for me but not for him. He’s the normal one, you know.” John’s chest constricted a bit at that, but he remained silent nonetheless. 

“So...I came here. I’ve been dating your son for months now and I just thought it best to meet his parents, no matter the circumstances.” John swallowed thickly, dropping his arms slowly as Sherlock continued. 

“He is...he’s amazing.” Sherlock took a pause after this, and John could hear him fidget with the flowers once more. “He’s the first person I’ve ever met that doesn’t make me feel...well, weird and left out, even though I am usually. If you met me, you’d get it.” He gave a heavy sigh, pausing again before clearing his throat. 

“You raised such a wonderful son. I don’t know how he came into my life or why he ever decided to stay with me, but I just wanted to thank you for him. He’s the best person I’ve ever met, and...well, he makes me proud to be Sherlock Holmes. I’d never felt that before I met him.” 

John closed his eyes, breathing in slowly as he listened to Sherlock take the wrap off of the flowers finally, and when he opened them and turned back around he saw him standing back up, the flowers neatly placed in the middle of the two stones. 

Sherlock looked up and met his eyes, waving a bit awkwardly before calling out. “You can come over now!” he said, and John smiled happily, immediately walking over before throwing his arms around his waist. 

Sherlock groaned a bit at the impact, stumbling back slightly but John merely squeezed him tighter, sighing into his coat. 

“Thank you, Sherlock…” he murmured, and yeah, maybe it took a few seconds and maybe the hug was awkward, but he still returned it, his chin resting briefly on the top of John’s head before he mumbled a faint “you’re welcome” back. 

John managed to drag Sherlock around the town for a few more hours, even visiting the beach, but he could tell he was getting bored and slightly agitated, as he usually did when he was in unfamiliar settings while not on a case. John agreed to catch a train back to London, and they got lucky when they snagged a compartment all to their own. 

John slipped his fingers in between Sherlock’s when they sat down, and Sherlock never broke the grip, the two of their hands resting comfortably on the seat between them the entire ride home. 

It was nearly 5 in the evening when they got back to London, the temperature having risen a bit but it was still raining, cold and wet and heavy all over the city. They took a cab from the station back home, shaking out their coats in the doorway as Mrs. Hudson came scurrying around a corner. 

“There you two are! I thought you’d gone out of town for Christmas without telling me!” John smiled as Sherlock hung his coat, still dripping a bit from the rain before turning to face her. 

“What, and not give you your present? Absolutely not, we would never.” 

Mrs. Hudson was enjoying the wine John and Sherlock had gotten her for Christmas a bit too much, and John quite literally had to walk her downstairs to her room as she hiccuped the entire way there. 

“John! Did I give you and Sherlock your scarves?!” she exclaimed loudly, and John grinned despite her having asked the same question just a few minutes earlier.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, and we absolutely love them, thank you for making them…” She waved her hand around wildly, trying to act modest but coming across as a bit crazy, laughing loudly to herself. 

“Anything for my two boys, anything!” she mused, and John barely managed out a “Merry Christmas” before she shut the door, probably already headed straight for her bed. 

He made his way back upstairs to their flat and walked in, Sherlock already setting their wine glasses in the sink, looking a bit disdained. 

“I absolutely hated that wine, I don’t know how she drank so much.” John smirked and shrugged, closing the door behind him before locking it for the night. 

“Ah well, it was her present anyway…” He picked up the bottle and set it by the front door, making a mental note to take it down to her tomorrow sometime before he turned around, staring at the cabinet on the opposing wall. 

“Sherlock, you know we haven’t gotten drunk in awhile…” he called out towards the kitchen, where he heard him scoff loudly and turn off the water, walking back towards the living room. 

“Yes well, the last time we did I ended up puking all over the floor of a client’s flat and Lestrade had to bail us out of jail,” he retorted sourly, and John grinned at him, shrugging a bit.

“Eh, was just a bad night…” he mused, walking over towards the cabinet and pulling it open, scanning the liquor bottles in front of him before turning around, raising an eyebrow. “There’s vodka in here…” 

Sherlock huffed again, leaning against the back of John’s hair, the front of his dark purple button up shirt wet from the dishwater, tapping his fingers against the cushion. “...on Christmas Eve? Really, John?” 

John merely stared at him for a moment, tilting his head to the side dumbfoundedly. “Since when have you considered yourself a moral person about anything?” 

Sherlock pursed his lips slightly, looking a bit conflicted for a moment before shrugging his shoulders, a look of agreement on his face. 

“You’re right. Hand it over.” 

John had never really considered himself a lightweight, but when he was with Sherlock it took no time at all for him to get wasted. An hour later he found himself on the floor of the apartment, his legs propped up against the top of the coffee table in between them as he nursed a bottle of whiskey, breaking out into giggles every time he caught his boyfriend’s eye. Sherlock was lying across the top of the table, his long body too long as his legs hung off the sides and his head lolled off of the opposite end, his curls nearly touching the floor as he stared at the fireplace behind him, swinging his vodka bottle around in his hand. 

“Do we have chimney sweeps anymore? Like, is that an actual job?” He took another swig from his bottle, his head still upside down as John hiccuped loudly, throwing his hands up as he shrugged. 

“Who knows? I thought they only existed in Mary Poppins,” he responded, and Sherlock immediately starting giggling, reaching over with his free hand to cover his mouth to try and stifle them. John snorted loudly, leaning forward and nearly colliding with the table before he started laughing, and he barely saw Sherlock roll off the table on the opposing side, only realizing he’d hit the floor face down when he heard a loud thud. 

“Sherlock!” he slurred, immediately throwing himself down on his knees and crawling around as Sherlock rolled onto his back, groaning a bit. “Are you okay?” 

John’s face was hovering over his now, one hand on the carpet and the other still around his bottle as Sherlock grinned toothily up at him, nodding quickly. 

“Mhmmm…” He sat up slowly, reaching up and wrestling the first couple of buttons from his shirt free before leaning dramatically back against his chair, bubbling his lips for a few seconds. 

“It’s hot,” he mused, setting his bottle back on the table as John smiled, following suit and sliding back over to his own chair, leaning against it as well. 

“It’s snowing outside,” he replied, pointing aimlessly at what he hoped was the window before dropping his hand limply back into his lap. Sherlock hummed in response, the two of them locking eyes for a few moments. A calm silence filled the room, and then was broken with John’s sudden excited exclamation. “Let’s play Truth or Dare!” 

Sherlock snorted, crossing his arms in an attempt to look annoyed but he looked like a confused toddler instead. “What grade are we in, John?” 

John wrinkled his nose at him, leaning forward and clasping his hands together, his elbows resting on the table. “Please, Sherlock! I just wanna play one round!” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit, although he looked the farthest from cross he could be before he gave a heavy sigh of defeat, his head falling back on the chair. 

“Fine, John Watson…” John smiled and sat up quickly, perching himself on his knees. 

“Good, I go first!” Sherlock shot his head up immediately and gaped at him, his brow furrowed in shock as John merely giggled, resting his chin on the tabletop. 

“Alright, truth or dare?” Sherlock sighed again, slamming his fists on the ground once like a child before blowing a stray curl out of his face. 

“Truth,” he replied, and John groaned loudly, rolling his eyes. 

“God, you’re so boring sometimes!” he whined loudly and Sherlock merely shrugged in response, his head falling to the side to rest on his own shoulder as he watched him. 

John leaned back against his chair, untucking his legs beneath him before tapping his chin, squinting his eyes slightly at Sherlock. He had the opportunity to ask him anything in the entire world, the power to force the truth out of the man who never said a word about his personal life, his past, anything about himself. This was his chance. 

“Do you love me?” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he was already kicking himself internally before he finished. Of course Sherlock loved him; well, he had to in some way at least, if they were dating. Sherlock hadn’t ever looked John straight in the eye and told him that before, which would be unnerving to most but to John it was okay. That was Sherlock, that was who we was and how he acted. He didn’t need to be told he was loved daily. 

Still...it’d be nice every now and again. 

John broke from his reverie to glance at Sherlock again, who had suddenly frozen up in his spot, the looseness of his body from the alcohol disappearing. His mouth was turned down in a slight frown, his light blue eyes no longer staring into his, but rather staring at a fixed spot on the table. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped 10 degrees. 

John blinked slowly as Sherlock swallowed thickly before nodding his head a couple times, still avoiding his eyes. “Yes, I do.” 

“How much do you love me?” John nearly cut him off and Sherlock released a breathy sigh, closing his eyes momentarily. 

“I thought this was a one question thing…” he mumbled weakly and John sat up immediately, leaning towards the table. 

“How much do you love me, Sherlock Holmes?” His voice had taken such a dark turn it even scared himself. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, exactly; it was just a stupid game. But he could feel his heart begin to pound against his chest, sweat accumulating on the palms of his hands as he stared his boyfriend down, his bottle of whiskey lying forgotten on the carpet near his feet. 

Sherlock was silent, his head now tilted further downward as he stared straight down into his lap. All John could see were his dark curls, still damp with rain water clinging to them, a bit shiny in the lamplights surrounding them. John watched his back rise and fall as he took a shaky breath, lifting his head up and finally looking back at him with tear filled eyes. 

“I’ve never loved anything more in the entire world than you, John Watson.” 

There was an odd silence then, one John was sure he’d never experienced before. They stared each other down as if in the middle of a vicious showdown, Sherlock’s eyes brimming with tears and John’s blank in return. He scanned his face carefully, trying to convince himself it was probably the liquor talking but he’d never seen Sherlock look so serious in his entire life. 

John opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, pressing his lips together before blinking,inhaling a sharp breath. “You...you mean that?”

Sherlock made a sort of strangled sobbing noise that seemed to come from deep within his throat and it startled John, sitting up a bit before Sherlock’s tears finally began to fall.

“God, yes John! Every morning I wake up and I look over at you and I wonder, how is it that I came across this man who somehow, in some bewildering and unfathomable way, decided to be my friend and then wanted to date me? How is it that John Hamish Watson, the most kind and caring man I’ve ever known, decided it was me he wanted to spend his days and nights with, me who he wanted to walk around holding hands with in public?” His words were falling out with the speed of a river about to flood over, tumbling over his lips in a frenzy and John was frozen in place.

“I’ve never been able to admit to myself that I loved anyone. I didn’t understand it! I Well, I understand the chemical imbalance in the brain, it’s all science and numbers and that makes perfect sense to me but what doesn’t it experiencing it! And I realized that…” He waved his hand wildly above his chest for a moment, looking flustered. “I realized the warm feeling in my chest I get everytime I see you is because of that. It’s because I love you, and I’m in love with you, and I don’t believe I’m ever going to stop loving you.” 

John stared blankly at him, his mind nothing but white noise. He could vaguely feel his heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing through his ears as Sherlock stared back at him, wide eyed and anxious, his chest rising and falling heavily as more tears continued to fall. 

John swallowed thickly, blinking a couple times and he glanced down at Sherlock’s hands on the table, his knuckles white as they gripped the edge of it. He tilted his head back up before pushing his palms against the carpet, scooting himself over and around the table to Sherlock’s side. 

Sherlock eyed him nervously, watching him closely but remaining rigid nevertheless, and John leaned forward, reaching out with both hands to slowly loosen and release his grip, clutching his hands tightly within his before meeting his eyes. 

“I know that was hard for you to say,” he started, and Sherlock let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes and nodding quickly. 

“I don’t want it to be hard, I don’t!” His voice cracked slightly and John’s chest ached, tightening his grip on his hands as Sherlock spoke. “It’s just...I’ve never felt like this, and I don’t deal with things like other people do, and it’s all so new and I don’t know what to say because I’ve never been a nice person but I want to be that for you…” John shook his head quickly, releasing his hands before reaching up and wiping his cheeks with his thumbs, keeping a gentle grip on his face. 

“Sherlock Holmes, I fell in love with you just the way you are; sarcastic, lacking in tact, and full of asshole comments.” Sherlock cracked a watery grin, remaining quiet as John continued. “I don’t want you to change that. I want you to do what’s comfortable for you, want you to do what makes you happy, whatever that may be. I know you love me, I really do…” He smiled fondly at him, dropping his hands. “You wouldn’t have kept me around for this long if you didn’t.” 

Sherlock released a heavy breath then, his body still remaining tense and rigid. He nodded once, staring intently into John’s eyes. His eyes were red rimmed and his cheeks shiny with tear stains, scanning his face carefully and slowly. 

John felt as if he were being scanned for a moment, like he was a potential client sitting in one of their chairs, being judged to see if he was worthy to pursue. In a sense, he felt strangely uncomfortable because Sherlock had never looked at him like that, had never judged him. He’d literally invited him to move in with him 5 minutes after meeting him, for God’s sake. 

Sherlock kept his gaze on him, slowly but surely pushing himself to sit up on his knees, inching ever closer towards him. John felt nauseous and dizzy and excited all at the same time, suddenly aware of how close he was. His skin seemed to be tingling, buzzing with the intensity of his stare and the proximity of his body heat, and suddenly the room seemed much, much smaller. 

John didn’t dare break their gaze until Sherlock was a mere inches away from his face. For a brief second, his blue eyes flickered down to his lips and John barely had time to realize what was going to happen before it did. 

John had always instigated personal contact, never Sherlock, which obviously included kissing. Their first kiss had happened right before they started dating, and John had decided to do it on a whim in the living room. Sherlock had been curled up on his couch, wrapped up in his blue robe and skimming a book for a case they were on, and his lips had been too tempting. He’d rushed over, leaned in and kissed him before he could tell himself not to. 

He’d jumped out of the way in fear that Sherlock would quite literally explode or fall off the couch, or a combination of both, but he didn’t. He’d merely stared at John for a few moments, his expression of shock slowly fading into a small smile, his cheeks slightly pink, before he looked back down at his book and continued to read. 

Since then, John had been able to get away with kisses here or there, never in public but that was okay. However, Sherlock had never been one to start them. It was a sort of silent agreement between them; John ran the show in their relationship, and Sherlock took care of everything else. It had been...well, it was fine. Not great, but fine. He loved him enough to move on. 

But this...this he could get used to. 

Sherlock’s large hands gripped the sides of his face as he leaned into the kiss, pulling him to sit up taller and meet his height. John was stunned, because why wouldn’t he be? He nearly froze up like a mannequin until Sherlock began to move his lips, and then it was all over from there. 

He kissed with a certain sense of uncertainty, yet at the same time John could swear he’d been doing this for years. It was deep, just like he was, full of pushed down feeling and emotions and it felt like a tsunami hitting at him all at once. He barely recognized his own hands moving upward to grab ahold of his waist, the thin fabric of his shirt rustling against his fingertips as he gripped onto it. Sherlock merely hummed in response, tilting John downward ever so slightly to deepen the kiss. 

He pulled away suddenly, nearly dropping John on the floor but he kept a hold of his waist, pulling himself back to sit up, blinking rapidly at him. Sherlock looked surprised, shocked even, with himself, his chest rising and falling rather rapidly, his eyes wide. He blinked before clearing his throat awkwardly once, looking at everything but John’s face, suddenly very interested in the flat. 

“...I hope that was okay,” he finally managed out, and John swore he was floating at this point, his heart ready to burst from his ribcage at any moment. 

He stared at him, this beautiful, sociopathic, curly haired mess of a man sitting in front of him, cheeks shiny and lips slightly swollen, his hands clasped together in his lap like a child waiting to be lectured to. This is who he’d chosen to fall in love with.

It was probably the best choice he’d ever made. 

His arms were around Sherlock’s neck in an instant, colliding into him with such force that he nearly fell back, although it was probably from all of the alcohol still swimming in their systems.

He buried his face into his neck, inhaling deeply and relaxing as Sherlock returned the hug, his long arms wrapped around him just as tightly. 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock…” he murmured into his neck, his voice muffled. He heard Sherlock hum happily in return, the noise vibrating his throat slightly. 

“Merry Christmas, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i know this was rough, but it's my first attempt! things can only go up from here!  
> please leave any type of comments or kudos if you want. i love criticism and want to hear from all of you!  
> all the love x


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